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Killer 5
Transcript 5 I will return in the morning with a sizable cardboard box of supplies: hand broom and dustpan, restaurant-grade food processor, a canvas, a palate, and my paintbrushes and pigments. The ones in the studio are too old to use, and I can't leave mine there for fear of the place being found. I will make certain the kiln has finished firing and I will open it to reveal her blackened remains. The whole place will smell like burnt meat. I will remember my bewilderment from the first time, when I discovered that human remains mostly retain their shape following cremation. I will hesitate but a moment, wondering what it feels like to be saved. The hand broom and dustpan will not be enough to hold all of her, nor will the food processor. It will be a slow process, but I am well aware that most great art takes time. I will take care, when sweeping her remains into the dustpan, not to spill her on the floor. The grinding might be messy, and it will certainly be loud. It will take trial and error to determine the correct amount of water to mix in, and I will lament not practicing this part the first time. When I do get it right, I will set up my easel and begin mixing the pigments with the ash on my palate and then I will begin to paint. The first few strokes will be ungainly, an injustice to her memory forever imprinted on the canvas, but I will reassure myself that the next one will be immaculate. I will be meticulous in shaping Olivia's features, capturing the gentle arch of her brows and the indolent curve of her small mouth. I will take particular care in shaping her eyes, imagining them as they were without fear. When it comes time to mix the pigment for her irises, I will find myrtle green missing from my box. I will ransack the cupboards, knowing quite well that I will find nothing closer than hooker's green on their shelves, and even that will be dried out and all but useless. I might allow the empty rage to take me momentarily, might kick a table leg until my toes bleed or pitch the traitor pigments across the room, but eventually I will resign myself to inadequacy. I will finish the painting and tidy the room, washing the food processor, paintbrushes, and palette off in the great plastic tub that serves as a sink, and returning each item neatly to the carboard box. As I leave, me eyes will slide over the walls and floor, lingering even after the lights have been shut off. When I return home, I will bleach the food processor and tuck it away in a cabinet in the kitchen. I will lay the hand broom and dustpan on the floor of the utility closet and organize the paintbrushes into a drawer by size and function. I will balance the canvas gingerly on the ledge in front of my television and study it from more than an hour, tracing the careful lines with my eyes. My only regret will be that I left my myrtle green pigment at home and couldn't mix the perfect bottle green. When they take my statement, what will I say? My work transcends mercy.